2.7.18

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing. (Macbeth, Act V, Scene v)